


The Saga of the Winter Soldier

by WinterSoldierfics (SupernaturalFlavoredLollipop)



Category: Bucky Barnes - Fandom, Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Winter Soldier (Comics), the winter soldier - Fandom
Genre: Avengers - Freeform, Bucky Barnes - Freeform, Captain America - Freeform, F/M, Marvel - Freeform, Multi, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, The Winter Soldier - Freeform, steve rogers - Freeform, winter soldier - Freeform, winter soldier getting his life together, winter soldier imagines, winter soldier romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-10
Updated: 2015-02-10
Packaged: 2018-03-11 13:56:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 5,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3328859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SupernaturalFlavoredLollipop/pseuds/WinterSoldierfics
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What was it like when the Winter Soldier left Steve on the riverbank? Where did he go? How did he survive in a world he didn’t understand?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Apartment of Bucky Barnes

The apartment he’d decided to live in wasn’t bad. It was a ground floor, one bedroom, one bath space, small, but it had the added bonus of a very small back yard. Surrounded by a chain link fence so he could see past it. It was at the far end of the corridor, so he had plenty of escape options. 

Getting the money for the place was trickier. He’d basically been dead for nearly 70 years. He could use new guns and advanced weaponry… but all of the things people were dependent on now- what civilization was based on- were foreign to him. He’d gone to the bank where he’d originally opened an account, way back in the forties. He’d found out how much money he had in there. The interest had increased it by a lot. He was basically rich. But of course they wouldn’t let him get it out. He couldn’t prove who he was- even if he could, no one would believe this man (who looked thirty years old, tops) was really a WW2 veteran. He’d tried claiming he was James Buchanan Barnes III, but without ID that didn’t work either. The Russians had stripped him of everything. No money, no identity, and very few memories. 

He’d done what he had to do. He’d broken in at night, tied the guard up, used his knowledge of explosives to get to the money, and taken exactly the amount that was owed to him by the bank. He figured that was fair- it was his anyways. Not exactly legal, but what else could he do? He’d left the guard’s cell phone with him when he left so he could call it in. He wasn’t worried about leaving prints- any prints would be from a dead man, or so the police would think. He wasn’t too worried about being caught either. 

He’d paid cash for this place, in a ramshackle brick building in upstate New York. Cash in advance, rent for a year. It was furnished, which was nice, because he owned nothing. It was dark, especially in the evenings. His windows didn’t face east or west. It was depressing really, but he figured that’s probably what he needed right now. 

He hadn’t left a trail as far as he could tell. He knew he had no cyber footprint, since he didn’t even know how that worked. He’d bought some clothes. He’d studied how the majority of men dressed now. Poorly, in his opinion. Gone were the button up shirts and slacks of his youth… replaced by something called a “T-shirt” and “jeans”, which he had to admit were comfortable if not exactly amazing looking. He had to be careful of what he wore- his metal arm wasn’t exactly easy to hide. 

And the women. He wasn’t prepared for what they were wearing now, though if he admitted it to himself, he wasn’t entirely opposed to it either. He’d always loved women- the more he could see of them, the better. He remembered Steve always being exasperated whenever he’d show up (or leave) a gathering, with two ladies on his arm.

There was a girl who lived next door. She wore black a lot, a lot of tight pants and wingtip shoes. And tattoos. The tattoos. Women didn’t have those in the forties- but he realized they didn’t exactly mean now what they had then. Her hair was a short little black bob- those he recognized. It was nice to know some things never changed. She was interesting, but he’d only seen her in passing. She seemed nice enough. He’d helped her with her groceries once. 

But he was utterly alone. Alone in this old apartment building with what little memories he had left of his old life, and the ones he wanted to forget of the time since he’d fallen from that train. Everything had changed so quickly. The last 60+ years were a blur of being woken up, going on a mission, and being put back to sleep. He vaguely remembered shooting that redheaded woman who had been helping Steve, but years before. So he supposed he’d shot her twice now. She was lucky. Not many people could claim to have been shot by him and lived, let alone more than once. Six months ago he’d dragged Steve out of the water after nearly killing him. He wanted to kill him. Killing Steve Rogers had been his mission. It was the only mission he’d ever not completed. And he’d done it on purpose. To be honest, he still wasn’t sure how he felt about that. Steve said he’d be with him til the end of the line- but what if that line had already been crossed?

 


	2. Being Human Again isn't as Fun as it Looks, Is it Bucky?

Bucky hadn’t been feeling well for a few days, but he was a soldier. He was a  _ Supersoldier. _ He didn’t get sick. The Russian doctors made sure of that. Until last wednesday, he wasn’t even sure if he was still able to. But it had been getting continually worse. This morning he had woken up with a fever, a high one as far as he could tell. His vision swam in front of his eyes. He swung his legs over the side of the bed. He was so, so cold. He somehow made it to the dresser, and pulled on sweatpants and a thick thermal shirt. 

The room was spinning, sweat dripping off of him. He barely made it to the kitchen, and reached up to the cabinet to get a glass of water. It was his luck that his apartment cabinets weren’t very solid. As he balaced himself, the entire cabinet pulled from the wall. Glasses crashed down around him as he fell, and the room went black. “Shit” he thought as he descended into darkness. “I’m vulnerable this way.”

______________________________________

Joy was leaving her apartment when she heard a loud noise from the apartment next door, followed by the sounds of breaking glass, and a distinct “thud.” All followed by silence. 

She had met the man who lived next door once or twice. He was quiet but polite, with long brown hair and brooding eyes. He would nod at her in the hallway. She was pretty sure he lived alone. In fact, he always seemed to be alone. So she was a little concerned when she didn’t hear any noise come from next door for a few moments.

She knocked timidly on his door, the louder, until finally she was pounding on it. She heard nothing. She was about to go find the building superintendent, when the door opened. She looked down. Her neighbor had dragged himself to the door and was now bleeding next to her wingtip shoes. He was cut up from broken glass, sweaty as all getout, and holding a gun. “What the fuck?” she yelped, jumping out of the way. He looked at her, looked at the gun, and confusedly let it drop to the floor. 

"Oh my God. Are you all right?" Joy asked him, nudging the gun away and dropping to her knees near him. She was going to be late for work, but screw it. Her boss would understand. 

"I’m… I don’t know." 

"What’s your name?"

He looked at her suspiciously before replying. “Bucky.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Okay then, B. What the hell happened?” She asked him. She felt his forehead. It was burning up. “Holy shit. Okay, lets get you back into the house. Hang on”

Joy ran down the hallway to where her friend Cleo lived. Cleo was older than she was, and worked as a forklift operator. “Cleo, I need your help. The guy in 106 is… all kinds of fucked up. I need help moving him.” Cleo followed her back to Bucky’s apartment.

He staggered to his feet and they helped him to the sofa, then Joy went back to her apartment to get a thermometer. His temperature registered 103 degrees. “Shit, man, we need to get you to a hospital. You’re fever is WAY high and you’re bleeding all over the place.”

He grabbed her before she could move or grab her phone. “No hospitals. No doctors.” He stared into her eyes, pleading with her. “Please. No hospitals. No doctors.”

She nodded. “We need to break your fever.” She ran into the bathroom and began running cold water in the tub. She could hear Cleo in the livingroom. “You really managed to trash your kitchen, dude. You pulled the cabinet off of the wall.”

Joy came back out. “We need to get him in the bath. His fever is too high.” She looked pointedly at Bucky. “If you die because we didn’t take you to a hospital, I will be seriously pissed off. Forever.” 

The room was still spinning, faster now. Bucky thought he was going to be sick. And then he was. Luckily the floors were wood. “Oh gross.” Cleo grimaced. 

"No hospitals. No Doctors." He kept repeating it. The two women each got him under an arm and dragged him into the bathroom, pushing him ungracefully into the tub, which was now full of cold water. He started as soon as his body hit the water. They held him down. 

"It’ll cool you. Stop fighting us!" Joy yelled at him. Bucky stopped, very aware that it wouldn’t take much for him to seriously harm these two women. 

Cleo went back into the livingroom to clean up the vomit, and start to sweep up broken glass. Joy reached for the hem of Bucky’s shirt and began to lift it over his head. He stopped her. 

"I’m not getting fresh with you. Seriously. Take it off. You’re chest deep in a tub full of water. And I need to bandage your arms. You’re bleeding."

"I don’t know what that means…" a wave of nausea and dizziness washed over him again, and he gave up, letting her pull his shirt up over his head.

"Oh my God." Joy’s eyes widened as she took in this strange man’s body. The entirety of his left shoulder, arm, and hand were made of metal. "Cleo, get your ass in here!" She yelled.

Cleo came in and stopped short at the door. “What the fuck?”

Joy turned to look at Cleo, her green eyes misting over. “I know why he doesn’t want to see a doctor. I think he was… some sort of expirament.”

 

 


	3. Not the Best Circumstances to Meet Under, TBH

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Winter Soldier has started a solitary life for himself in upstate New York, but is encountering some unforseen complications in the process.

Cleo had to take off to work, but been worn to secrecy about their neighbors bionic appendages. Joy called in sick. She explained to her manager that her neighbor had no one and was on the verge of a fever induced seizure, and since she had some medical training she felt that she couldn’t leave him. 

Bucky was miserable in the cold bath. He was shivering already from chills, and now he was in his underpants, in front of a strange woman, in cold water. The water had blood in it too. 

"I probably should have bandaged you up first, but your fever was freaking me out." Joy came into the bathroom, and took a seat on the floor near the tub. She reached out a hand to feel his forehead. His fever dropping, his reflexes were coming back. Fast as lightning, he grabbed her arm before she could touch him. She gave him a startled look. 

He dropped her arm. “Sorry. I’m really sorry. I’m just… a little uncomfortable.”

She rubbed her wrist. That metal arm was strong. “I guess you’ve probably been through a lot. Put you on edge. But, I’m not planning on hurting you, so don’t go all PTSD on me all right?”

"PTSD?" He asked her. She rolled her eyes. He was delusional-  _ wait a second. She recognized this man.  _

She stood up, backing away from him. “I saw you… I saw you on the news.” She kept backing up. “A few months ago.” She was at the door now. “It’s the arm. I recognize the arm. And the hair.” She had to get out now. This man was a killer. 

She dashed out the bathroom door, grabbing her purse, and hightailing it to his front door. She was about to turn the knob and leave when two strong arms grabbed her from behind and pulled her back. She tried to scream, but a hand covered her mouth. He whispered something to her. She thought it was in russian. 

She struggled more, and landed a solid punch to his nuts. He dropped her for a second, but had her back in his arms again quickly. 

"I don’t fucking speak russian." She muttered through his fingers.

He seemed to snap out of his haze. He let her go. “I’m not going to hurt you.” He stood in front of her, dripping wet, covered in cuts, in grey boxer shorts. “I’m not that man anymore. You can’t tell anyone. They’ll make me go back. They’re looking for me.” He looked scared. It almost killed her to see such a strong man look so broken.

Part of her wanted to run to the nearest police station and rat him out. And part of her wanted to find out what was going on.

"Who’s looking for you?" She asked. 

He shrugged dejectedly. “I don’t know. The Russians. Shield. Hydra. Everyone. Or no one. Maybe they think I’m dead. They spent a lot of money bringing me back though. They won’t give up so easily.”

This was all a bit much. Joy focused on what she could handle. “You cut yourself up on those glasses pretty badly. Let’s bandage those wounds.” She found a small first aid kit under the sink, and applied antiseptic to his cuts, and bandages to the ones that were still bleeding.

Bucky hadn’t had anyone be kind to him in a long time. Decades, really. He sat patiently while this strange girl tried to fix him. She didn’t exactly dote on him- she was more matter of fact. But she had a gentle touch.

There was a bad gash on on his right shoulder. “You’re going to need stitches.” She told him. “This won’t heal. Stitches mean a hospital.”

He shook his head. “I’ll manage.”

"You’re going to  _ stitch your own arm up _ ?” She asked. The answer was soon to follow. She wasn’t sure if it was the hottest thing she had ever seen, or the grossest thing she had ever seen. A man giving himself stitches was, well,  _ manly _ .

Bucky could feel her eyes on him. It made him uncomfortable. It shouldn’t have. Back in his day, he’d been a hit with the ladies. They’d loved him and he’d loved them. Of course, he had never been dragged into a bathroom, thrown in a freezing tub of water, and stripped by one before. That made it a bit awkward. His fever _  had  _ broken, though. 

"So… I read on the news that you… well, they don’t know what you are. But you killed Nick Fury. And you tried to kill Captain America."

Bucky slowly nodded, and shame flashed briefly across his face. “I’ve killed a lot of people.” He tied off the floss he’d stitched himself up with, and cut the end off. “It’s a long story.”

Joy sat down on an ugly orange chair across the room from him. “I called out from work, and you’re fever isn’t gone. I need to keep an eye on you. I’ve got all day.”

Surprisingly, Bucky was glad about this. It had been months, but for a few hours now, he wouldn’t be alone. 

 

 


	4. Sleep is Just Sleep Now, Even if Someone is There

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky discovers that sleep is actually for resting, not just for restoring his supersoldier-ness. 

Bucky didn’t feel comfortable enough yet to tell this neighbor of his the whole story. Or even part of it. Part was that he didn’t fully comprehend what had happened to him. How could he? The world had changed while he had been frozen, only woken up to take out a “threat” and then put back to sleep. And also, partly because he didn’t trust her. That wasn’t her fault. He didn’t trust anyone. 

However, she hadn’t let him die, and she hadn’t called the hospital, and she seemed willing to cut him some slack. 

She was sitting in the orange chair across from him. It was one of those round ones, he couldn’t be sure what decade it was from, but in his opinion, furniture sure had gotten uglier after the forties. It lacked class, as did most things nowadays. This girl didn’t seem to lack class, though she definitely wasn’t what he was used to. 

She appeared relaxed, but he recognized the look. She was ready to bolt at any minute if he went nuts. Which he wasn’t going to do, but she didn’t know that.

HIs temperature was down to 100 now, and he’d taken a couple of pills called Tylenol. He was wrapped in a thin sheet. No matter what he said, she wouldn’t give him a blanket. 

"You’ll overheat. You have a fever. You can’t make yourself warmer, that’s the  _ worst _  thing you can do. Didn’t anyone ever teach you that in Super Soldier training?” She asked him. He scowled at the lack of blanket and real clothing.

"They made sure I never got sick."

"Well, they also controlled your life, as far as I can tell." She raised an eyebrow at him. "Nut up, dude. You’re going to have to suffer through it."

"Nut up?" He asked her. "Dude?"

She shook her head. “Nevermind. I can explain modern lingo later.” 

"No, what does it mean?"

"Nut up means, like… be a man about it." She stated. He nodded. He also smiled. Joy thought he had a nice smile. She bet he used to smile a lot before whatever happened to him. 

"And dude is just a generic name for a person." She thought back to her limited knowledge of old movies. "Like Pal. Only you can use it if you’re mad too. You can pretty much call a person Dude whenever you want."

He took this in. He probably wouldn’t be calling anyone “Dude” anytime soon. “I’m in over my head.” He stretched out on the sofa. He was getting sleepy, but the pounding in his head was subsiding. 

"How’s that?" She already knew but figured she’d ask, to keep the conversation going.

"I’ve been dead for seventy years. Nothing is the same." He looked at the ceiling. "You’re the first person I’ve really had a conversation with since I left when the Helicarrier crashed."

"Lucky you." She frowned. "I’m not the most interesting person."

Bucky turned to look at her. “How so? You’re so… unusual.” He paused. “I mean that as a compliment.”

She shrugged. “I go to work. I come home. I listen to music. I read. That’s about it. Not a very exciting life.”

"That sounds like an amazing life." Bucky closed his eyes. "What’s music like now?"

"Oh, hon, I don’t think you’re ready for modern music yet. We need to ease you into this whole thing. You’ve been out of the game a long time." Joy was thinking of Bucky listening to Gangster Rap or Screamo music, and smirked. "But there’s seven decades of music to work through. And I happen to have a pretty stellar record collection. If you don’t die, and if you don’t kill me because I know your secret."

"I won’t kill you. There’s no need. You’d be easy to trace if I had to." He was drifting off to sleep. "But I’d like to hear music. When I’m better."

She nodded. She wasn’t sure whether to be freaked out that he had said he could track her and kill her if he needed to, or if he was joking. And now he was asleep. She figured he must be really sick, because people like him… men like him didn’t let their guard down around strangers. Even if the stranger was a girl who’d probably saved his life, and rocked a fierce pair of wingtips.

 

 


	5. Everybody Needs Somebody Sometimes

Bucky awoke from his slumber, feverish, on the couch. He’d sweated through his shirt and was damp from head to toe. It had been over 70 years since he’d been ill. 

Joy was still perched in the ugly orange chair, reading a book. Her shoes were off and her feet were tucked up under her. When he began to move, she looked over at him. She seemed concerned, and got the thermometer again. It was a neat contraption- not like the old glass ones. This one was plastic, and beeped after a few seconds. She looked more concerned after the beep. “It’s 103 again.”

He sighed. “Back in the tub?”

She nodded. “And more tylenol.”

She helped him up and they struggled back to the restroom. She filled the tub with tepid water, helped him remove most of his outer garments, and got him into the tub. He slipped, dragging her down into the water with him on accident. She slipped on top of him. He started. He hadn’t been so close to a female in a very long time, even if it WAS an accident.

"Shit!" She cried. "This water is COLD." She paused for a second, then climbed off of him, almost slipping again in the water."

"That’s why I’m not enjoying this very much." He replied, helping her out of the tub. "There are extra towels under the sink."

She looked under the sink. There was also a glock under there. She chose to ignore this and grabbed a towel. This man was obviously paranoid, and it seemed like he had good reason to be. “Don’t go anywhere.” She said. “I’m going next door to change clothes.”

She left, and he could hear his front door slam shut. He knew she was right. He should be at the doctor’s right now. But he couldn’t risk it. He would rather die in the arms of a stranger than live another second working for the Russians.

He could feel himself getting delusional. He was hearing things. Russian things. He could see their machinery, and suddenly he was back in surgery, getting his arm grafted on. He looked down at it, stretched it out, flexed, like it was brand new. He could have killed his neighbor with it at any time, and that was a scary thought. He knew he wouldn’t, but he  _could_.

When Joy came back, he was passed out again in the tub. She woke him up and forced him to drink water. She wasn’t sure what else to do besides try to break his fever. She hoped he didn’t die. He seemed like a nice enough man, and she really didn’t want to go to jail for neglect. Could she even, if he hadn’t wanted to go to the hospital? She wasn’t sure.

His fever came down, but continued to spike and drop all throughout the night. She sat diligently beside him, dozing off at times. He would wake up and be startled that there was someone in his home, then recognize her.

When morning broke, so did his fever. It was now down to a manageable 99 degrees. 

"You’re out of the woods, B." She told him.

"Why do you keep calling me B?" He asked. 

"You’re obviously running. A name like Bucky in 2015 is kind of conspicuous. B can stand for tons of things." She explained.

He nodded. “I guess that makes sense.” He paused. “Can I ask you a favor? Another one I guess, because you probably saved my life.”

She nodded. “Sure.”

He wasn’t used to all of the slang that people spoke nowadays. “Could we listen to your records? Do you have anything old?”

"I don’t think I have anything from the forties, but I have some older jazz." She stood. "Are you feeling well enough to come to my place?"

He thought he was. He got unsteadily to his feet, put on some actual clothes (he’d been relegated to boxers for the duration of his fever and chills, which quite possibly had been the worst experience of his already awful life) and followed her next door. When she wasn’t looking he tucked a small gun into his waistband and hid it under his black shirt. He never could be too careful.

She pointed to a stack of apple crates stacked up along one wall of her apartment. A record player sat in the middle. “We can listen to whatever you want to.”

He scanned them all. He finally picked out an old Ella Fitzgerald album.

"You can take the couch. I’ll make you some tea." Joy told him. He relaxed on the red sofa and looked around. Her apartment was bright and cheery, whereas his was dark and gloomy. She had hardwood floors too, but most of her floor was covered in a very fluffy bright green throw rug. The Towels in her kitchen were electric blue. Her red sofa had pink pillows on either end. There was a small coffee table with a book on it. It was titled "Madonna: Sex". He opened it, curious. He closed it almost immediately. 

She came back in with two mugs of tea. Bucky thanked her, and sat back, enjoying his tea and taking in the music. 

 

 


	6. Sick Day/ A Simpler Time

Bucky spent the rest of the afternoon on Joy’s sofa, alternately napping and listeing to old jazz records. For the first time in over half a century, he felt at home. 

He wasn’t on edge. He knew he’d never be able to let himself truly go, but he began to relax a little. Was this how normal people lived? He couldn’t remember.

As he slept, he dreamed of old county fairs and dances, pretty girls who had all since grown old, and a simpler way of life. When he awoke, it all came flooding back. 

 


	7. Bucky is Well Again/ A Surprise Gift

Bucky went home, back to his apartment, that night. He as well enough to not need supervision. He had stayed for supper, listening to all of the jazz records he could. They'd even gotten into some fifties Rock and Roll, which he wasn't quite sure about but he thought he might be liking.

 

He fixed his cabinet the next day, and went to the store for new cups, since all of his had shattered on the floor when he pulled the shelf from the wall. While he was out, he decided that Joy deserved a token of gratitude for all of the help she had been to him. He just couldn't figure out what she might like. After pondering for the better part of the day, he was pretty sure he had the perfect gift in mind! It was extremely practical, and she seemed like a practical girl.

 

Joy went in to work that next day. After a grueling 8 hours on her feet, she drove home. Upon opening her front door, she stopped and stared. Her mouth fell open. Laying on the counter directly in front of the door, was a vase of wildflowers and what she thought was an M-16 assault rifle. And she was pretty sure she knew who it was from.

 

She grabbed the rifle, left the flowers, and pounded on Bucky's door. He opened it after a few hard knocks. He was smiling, but quickly stopped when he saw the look on Joy's face.

 

“ _What the fuck is this?_ ” She demanded to know.

 

“It's a gun.” He replied. “It's a gift, for helping me.”

 

“It's an assault rifle! What the _hell_ am I supposed to do with an _assault rifle_?” She yelled. This was not going to plan. Everyone Bucky knew would _love_ an assault rifle... then he realized that everyone he knew were crazy Russian soldiers.

 

“Keep it, in case they come after you?” He said, deflating.

 

“ _No one is after me_! They might be after _you,_ not me. I just live next door.” She handed it back to him. “And you _don't break into someone's apartment to leave them a gift! That's creepy._ ”

 

Bucky was really disheartened. He knew he'd messed up majorly. The gun had made so much sense to his soldier mind, but now his regular mind, his Bucky mind, was coming through. And he could see how maybe it hadn't all been a good idea. Maybe only the flowers had been a good idea. And _maybe_ not breaking into her apartment.

 

“I'm sorry.” He said. He seemed sincere. “I will _not_ do that again. I'm still kind of confused. But I want you to have something for protection.” He took the M-16 and left the room, returning with a small glock. He handed it to her.

 

“Um... thanks?”

 

“Your apartment is entirely too easy to get into. You need new locks.” He added.

 

Joy sighed. He seemed like he had really wanted to thank her in the best way he knew how. It wasn't his fault the best way he knew how was super weird. “Thank you for the flowers. And the gun. Even though it's probably super illegal for me to own this. But hey, I probably broke thirty international laws helping you these last few days. What's a few more?”

 

Bucky felt at ease now. She was handling this really well. “I can teach you to use the gun. I'll feel much safer if you have it.”

 

“All right.” She said.

 


	8. The First Cut is the Deepest

Bucky and Joy had been spending a lot of time together the past few weeks. She had helped him get a computer so that he could start learning about everything he had missed in the last seventy years. She had taught him to use it, but he'd caught on quickly. He even was texting now, though she wasn't sure exactly why he'd wanted a cell phone- he called no one and only texted her. Cleo had been true to her word and said nothing about his metal arm. She always smiled at them when she saw them in the apartment halls, and winked at Joy every time Bucky wasn't looking. Cleo had told her that Bucky was “hot and she should tap that.” And while the thought of such a thing wasn't an _unpleasant_ idea, Joy knew that Bucky had a lot of stuff to figure out before any _“tapping”_ could even be anticipated. Bucky wasn't after Joy, she was pretty sure. She just happened to be the only person he _knew_.

 

In regards to companionship, he was excellent. She tended to be somewhat moody and need time to herself, and he let her be and never pushed the issue. He never acted hurt or put off when she said she'd rather be alone than with him at the end of a long day. She'd never had that before.

 

Bucky was starting to feel human again. He had a friend, a girl who he cared about a great deal. In his eyes, anything she did was fine.

* * *

 

About three weeks after they had truly met, they decided to drive down and visit the Smithsonian for a long weekend. Bucky had been there briefly six months before, to see the exhibit dedicated to Captain America and all of the rest of his crew from World War II.

 

They took Joy's green VW bug and made the trip down, arriving mid afternoon. After going through an art museum and the science museum, they ventured into the Museum of American History. Theyd been poking around for a while when Joy noticed that Bucky wasn't beside her anymore. She looked around and couldn't find him. She retraced their steps and located him in an alcove. She went to stand beside him.

 

He was standing before the 9/11 exhibit.

 

The look on his face was soul crushing.

 

“This happened? To our country?” He hung his head. Joy nodded.

 

The country he had fought so hard to protect had been attacked. Thousands of innocent lives lost. He couldn't wrap his head around it. Joy hadn't realized that he hadn't known.

 

He reached for her hand. He laced his gloved metallic fingers through hers. They both stood in silence for a very long time. A lone tear slide down Bucky's cheek.

 


End file.
